


I'm Not Dreaming

by TheSummoningDark



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, gratuitous angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSummoningDark/pseuds/TheSummoningDark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She blames him for the deaths of her sons. He can't fault her for that; after all, he blames himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1109702#t1109702) on the kink meme.

For ages hence tales will be told and songs sung of Thorin son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain, and how he and his brave companions reclaimed their home from the dragon Smaug.

Erebor thrives. The Kingdom Under the Mountain is a hive of activity, more of their kin arriving every day to restore Erebor to its former glory. The stench of dragon is cleansed from its halls, the forges aglow and ringing with hammerfalls, the Arkenstone blazing above the throne like a new star. Relations are good with the people of Lake Town and the newly re-established town of Dale...and grudgingly civil with the elves of Mirkwood. The River Running flows with gold once more. It's everything he had hoped for when they first set out for Erebor. It was all so clear, in those days: he would reclaim their homeland or die trying. After it had so very nearly been the latter, he should rejoice to rule over a kingdom restored. And yet never had he imagined that victory could be so hollow. Never had he imagined that it would come at so high a price.

His sister will not speak to him.

Oh, she will address him if she must, will answer perfectly civilly if he breaks the silence first. But she won't _speak_ to him. There's an icy formality to it; she is a subject addressing her king, no more and no less. She scarcely acknowledges him as kin. And he can't find it in himself to blame her. He swore to her, months and miles ago in the caverns of Ered Luin, that he would do everything in his power to keep his nephews from harm. Time and fate have made a liar of him. The silence between them is the silence of the grave, the sepulchral echo of the tomb they laid her sons in.

They were buried with every honour, and every tale and song of the Reclaiming of Erebor tells how they valiantly fell defending their wounded king. Their names are spoken with reverence. In time story will become legend, legend will become myth, and forevermore they will be remembered as great heroes of the line of Durin. And yet he would trade all the honour and glory of their line to have his foolishly brave, recklessly loyal nephews by his side once more. In his darker moods, he curses them for lacking the wit to have left him to his fate.

Not that he was ever one to seek death. But there is no shame in going down fighting against impossible odds, and when he found himself cut off from his allies and surrounded by orcs with his back to the wall, he had accepted that this would be his fate. By rights he should have died that day. And yet the blow which should have taken his head is instead a livid half-healed scar on his shoulder, the creature wielding the sword felled mid-stroke by one of Kíli's arrows. The last memory he has of that day - startlingly vivid for all his vision was swimming and greying out around the edges - is of his nephews standing back to back with his blood on their boots, faces grim and eyes bright as they braced to stand against the oncoming horde.

He came to a day later in the tent where the surviving wounded were being tended, and even as he opened his mouth to demand what had become of Fíli and Kíli, the bleak expression on Tharkûn's face was all the answered needed to the question he never voiced.

A month on his wounds still pain him. The ever-present dull throb is a constant reminder of how close he came to death; of the two brave young dwarves whose love and loyalty had led them to follow him, to fight for him, to die for him. Not for Erebor - not for a mountain they'd never seen, that they knew only from stories - but for _him_. Whenever the crown weighs heavier than usual, it's that knowledge which squares his shoulders and straightens his back; the knowledge of the sacrifices made to put him on this throne.

His sister will not speak to him. But her silence is a brittle thing, and he _knows_ her. He knows that eventually the icy facade will fracture and fail, and when it does, she will rage at him. She blames him for the deaths of her sons. He can't fault her for that; after all, he blames himself. Perhaps in time she will even come to forgive him. It's something to hope for, however remote the possibility. 

But even if Dís can find it in herself to forgive him, in his heart he knows that he can never forgive himself.


End file.
